How John found out about the Wizarding World, or Sherlock's Boggart
by Natalie River
Summary: Sherlock's locked himself in his room. John breaks in to find him confronting his fear. Documenting Sherlock's role in the fight against Voldemort. Rating for angst, dark humour, a suicide attempt, drug use and the usual.
1. The Boggart

_**Author's Note: Warning for talk of suicide, a little swearing, drug use and dark and violent imagery. I don't own any of it. It's a Harry Potter/Sherlock crossover, I own the BBC.**_

_**No, I don't own the BBC. I live in Britain though, which is quite close. I did have the idea though. I thought hrm what would Sherlock's boggart be. And I also realised that Sherlock and the Golden Trio wouldn't be that far apart in age if he's meant to be mid thirties 2012 and Hermione would have been thirty two then. So I played with the ages a bit.**_

_**Yup you heard me right, Hermione's thirty four this year guys. She's the same age as Dean Winchester. You heard me guys...**_

_**Oh and hope you enjoy the story! Please read and review!**_

SHSHSH

John Watson didn't know what was going on, but he'd entered the flat to find it in complete silence. Yet Sherlock's coat was on the sofa, one shoe was by the microwave on the floor and the other was in the bathtub. Sherlock's phone was on the kitchen table and yet Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

John had perfected his "not-as-good-as-Sherlock-but-quite-good" scan. He quite rightly deduced that Sherlock was in his bedroom. But during the day, and so quiet. Usually he'd lay without talking on the sofa, or be bouncing off the walls bored. Or...or something.

It wasn't right. The silence. The closed door. The Sherlock's actually using his bedroom for once instead of cluttering up the rest of the flat.

"Sherlock!" he called, pausing in the hallway. He rapped on the door thrice. "Sherlock, are you ok?"

There was something wedged beneath the door, the lock settled. As a whimper writhed its way from the locked room a terrible fear spread through John. Taking a step back he threw himself against the door.

SHSHSH

When Sherlock was seven Mycroft found a Boggart in a dusty cupboard in a dustier room in the old Holmes' house. Mycroft wasn't meant to do magic outside of school and Sherlock knew this very well. What he did wasn't exactly accidental magic, not anymore, but Mummy and Daddy thought it was and so Sherlock didn't get punished for his 'acts'.

Like the time he turned Mycroft's cream doughnut into a slug. Sherlock had mastered wandless magic before he'd even owned a wand. Mycroft knew of course, but couldn't ever quite proove it.

It was the summer holidays and so Mummy was at home, she taught at some French school of witchcraft and wizardry the rest of the year. Daddy was a muggle, he drove trains. Mycroft had been quite pleased when he found out he was a wizard, he thought it might explain his intellect.

He'd always been cleverer than other children, even more so than Sherlock, whom both had thought was slow till they actually met other kids. Mummy had always been magical, but she had sat Mycroft down at eight and explained that she was different and that he was too.

But no one at Hogwarts was as clever as him either. Mycroft was still just as different. But at least within the walls of Ravenclaw tower he was at home amongst like minded individuals. He knew he'd have been better off with Slytherin, but it was the one time he let his heart control his head. Mummy was a Muggleborn and Daddy was a Muggle, the racial discriminiation would be too much of a hiderance for even him to bear.

Sherlock had begged and begged Mycroft to let him see the foul creature. Mycroft had refused to tell him what the creature had turned into when he'd seen it. Sherlock had pulled on Mycroft's sleeves and eventually Mycroft had given in, delaying his quest (to take the creature to Mummy to deal with), and opening the chest that he'd trapped it in.

The Boggart took Myc's form. In his Hogwarts' robes, waving goodbye, then sneering, insulting him, laughing at him. It leered at him from a great height, it made fun of Sherlock's hair, of Sherlock's grades, a torrent of abuse from names the local children called him, to insults he'd come up with himself in the past.

"You are nothing little brother, but a freak."

There's a reason why Irene Adler, the brightest witch in her year, called Mycroft the Iceman. He tries to be a good brother, he really does. He cares, despite it being a terribly weakness. But to this day, while he understands how hurtful its words were, he doesn't understand why it became him.

SHSHSH

When Sherlock was sixteen, it took Irene Adler's form.

It was during the Second Wizarding War. Sherlock knew there were many many more things he should be afraid of. The world was ending. Nothing would be the same. Sirius Black was on the loose. Obviously Sirius Black was innocent, more like Peter Pettigrew did it, he of whom was still alive. Sherlock had gone to Dumbledore about it only to be told no one would believe him.

He'd corned Fred and George, asked to borrow their map, only to be told the idiots had given it to Harry Potter of all people. Harry Potter who'd told him where to go.

Sherlock wasn't sure why Harry didn't like him. After all, they were both in Gryffindor by choice and no other reason. The Hat had offered him Slytherin and he'd argued against it. Then it had offered Ravenclaw, but like hell was he going to be in the same house as his brother, even if said brother was leaving the next year to join the Ministry. Then the house had suggested Gryffindor. Apparently any house would suit him, a fact that he made sure to let Mycroft know about.

No one really liked Sherlock in Gryffindor. Lestrade didn't mind him, but that was only because he hadn't outed him and Mycroft like he'd let everyone know about Penelope and Percy (the fingernails, does no one look at the fingernails?). Hermione Granger, an annoying third year that Sherlock got on with quite well, was obviously in love with the youngest male Weasley (Sherlock had deleted his name).

Personally Sherlock quite liked Harry Potter. His arrival at Hogwarts brought interest and excitement, after all, before him all there was was guessing what horrible fate a DADA teacher was going to suffer. Sherlock didn't like divination, he'd taken it and then quit it, rather like the Granger girl did (they'd had a rant about the idiocy of the subject together one rainy afternoon).

Potter didn't like being told he was wrong, Sherlock had supposed. But not many people did. In his first year Sherlock had helpfully pointed out that there was something suspicious about Quirrrell but no one other than Potter had listened. In their second year Sherlock had almost taken Potter under his wing, for he too knew what it was like to be feared and hated. Unfortunately Sherlock had been in the library with Granger when she'd discovered what the creature was, only for them both to get petrified- he'd suggested taking it in turns to go around corners using a mirror, he'd been petrified first, then she had looked as well.

Of course he'd known all along Malfoy wasn't involved, and Granger had believed him, but if you tried telling that to stubborn Potter. Mycroft had told him to stay out of trouble. Sherlock disliked Percy Weasley more than Mycroft though and pitied the other Weasley's terribly for having such a creature as a brother, he'd been such a hinderance.

Potter didn't like him though, and he didn't really like Potter. But they had a love hate relationship and that was enough.

Sherlock knew he should have feared very different things therefore when he faced that Boggart in his DADA class (the teacher whom obviously was a werewolf). Voldemort was returning, he just knew it. But no one believed him.

But the Boggart became Irene Adler, a year older than him, Slytherin. Muggle born too actually, odd that.

It had been embarassing. She'd been naked. Remus Lupin hadn't quite known what to do.

But it had been an experience. He'd spoken to Mycroft via a two way mirror shortly after that. Mycroft hadn't been terribly sympathetic.

"Sex doesn't alarm me."

SHSHSH

In his last year at Hogwarts Dolores Umbridge took over the school. It had been a terrible terrible time. He still had the scars.

The Battle of the Ministry hadn't been very good.

Dumbledore's Army had been a stupid idea. He'd warned Potter to be careful with the Room of Requirement. He'd begged him, but Potter had letten his anger drive him. He was angry at Sherlock for insulting one of the Gryffindor boys, angry over such a silly childish thing. Angry about Sherlock's comment the previous year ("What does it matter about Diggory? Potter's fine, that's all anyone cares about around here isn't it?"). He hadn't had Granger to back him up ("Krum only wants a shag. But you can do so much better than Weasley. I'd go with Longbottom or Potter if I were you,").

Potter was angry about his comments on Sirius Black. It was true Black was only treating Potter the way he was because he saw James Potter in him. James Potter had been a bully. Potter didn't like being told that sometimes you should let the adults do things, sometimes you should trust and listen and not be Dumbledore's child-soldier.

Potter didn't like being told about Horcruxes.

The Battle of the Ministry had been terrible. Sherlock was glad for once that Mycroft had been there. But it was the first time he'd had blood on his hands. A fifth year Ravenclaw girl had once told him that one day they'd be standing over a body he'd put there, and she'd been right.

Sirius Black had died that night, but so had Luna Lovegood. Potter might blame himself for Black's death, it wasn't truly his fault, everyone knew that. But Sherlock's arrogance killed Luna. And he realised, as he held her broken body, that she nothing more than a child.

He had liked her, honestly liked her, she was completely insane. At least in his eyes, for sanity was objective. But she was one of the genuine few people he had ever met worth liking.

He was barely able to look at her father at the funeral. How could words ever express how sorry he was?

He happened upon the Boggart quite by accident. He could have easily rid the world of its twisted presence. But he didn't. Because it became a beautiful blonde girl, who smiled at him sadly. He feared it because it made him feel pain, a pain he'd taught himself not to feel. He kept the Boggart for nearly a year.

SHSHSH

He left Hogwarts. Joined the Order of the Phoenix, though most of them didn't want him on it and Mycroft certainly didn't. Mycroft had joined at sixteen, yet he thought Sherlock was too young at almost eighteen. Lestrade also didn't improve of Sherlock's involvement, Snape didn't trust him and Potter objected that he wasn't allowed to join.

But Dumbledore liked him. Sherlock was a weapon. Barely an adult, but a useful weapon. And even Sherlock knew they had to do everything they could to defeat the Dark Lord.

His Boggart became his own death for a few months.

He warned them about the Dementors. Dumbledore already knew, of course he did. He would.

When Dumbledore died he dedicated himself to hunting down the Horcruxes, if he worked out where one was he'd get a message through to the trio. He'd tried to convince the rest of the Order that Snape was still on their side, but no one believed him apart from Potter. Grudgingly the others did follow his logic.

"Why would Albus beg? Albus never begs. And Snape could do so much worse...no he stays at Hogwarts to protect them."

He became a freedom fighter for the Order. Tortured a few times. His Mother was kidnapped and killed for his and Mycroft's actions. He didn't know what suffering she had endured in that time, he didn't want to.

He held so many wounded in his arms as they died. He almost died many times himself. There were arguments. Longbottom and he argued often, Longbottom was making a scene at Hogwarts but Sherlock thought that they should focus their attention elsewhere.

He saved the life of Severus Snape, despite the fact that Snape would have gladly died, and was one of the few that Sherlock wouldn't have minded allowing to die. His love for Lily didn't justify his actions in Sherlock's eyes, but Sherlock knew to choose who lived and who died was monstrous. Even he knew that.

At the Final Battle, the Great Battle of Hogwarts, he had fought side by side with his brother. It had been in late January, the snow still on the mountains, when Potter escaped from Malfoy Mannor, stole a dragon and finally returned to Hogwarts. When Sherlock had arrived at Hogwarts ready to fight he'd only had a few words to say to him, "drama queen".

When they called out Potter was dead all hope left him and he fell to his knees as many others did. But Mycroft had held him tight, and whispered one word in his ear.

"Horcrux."

Caring about the dead doesn't bring them back, caring about the dead won't save the living. Truly Sherlock had thought Potter dead, and a pain filled his heart. But still he fought. He called out to Granger and Weasley, and they fought. For Harry. For Dumbledore. For all those who died.

He had seen children die, he had seen adults die, all alike. Torn apart or cursed. It scarred him.

They fought to survive.

His shield protected the Weasley girl and Granger but he didn't have time to raise his own before Lestrange's curse hit him. That was the moment Molly Weasley saved his life.

He'd duelled Voldemort himself. Just to give the Longbottom by enough time to get to the snake, as soon as he'd seen the hat he'd known. Greyback chose Sherlock to sink his teeth into and Mycroft had gotten in the way.

But despair couldn't take Sherlock because then he saw Potter, and he knew he wasn't dead. He knew.

It had all ended well in the end.

Tom Riddle was dead.

It was over. It was finally over.

"I'd fix that wand of yours, and then promptly lose that one somewhere very safe Potter," he'd murmured, gesturing to the Elderwand.

"Thanks Sherlock," Potter had replied. "But I'm not an idiot."

"You just died," he'd quipped.

"Doesn't make me an idiot."

Sherlock had rolled his eyes. "No, you are anyway."

SHSHSH

It hurt to remember the war, to remember Voldemort. It hurt to remember the dead. Cocaine became the drug of use. Heroin occasionally.

Mycroft became Minister of Magic shortly after Kingsley's time in office. They really were in modern times when those cursed by a werewolf's bite could actually hold government office.

He came across Potter at St. Mungo's a few times. Once when he'd overdosed Potter came to visit him. When Potter attempted suicide he returned the favour.

His Boggart became the bodies, the war.

He tried to turn his back on magic, it didn't work. But the Wizarding World realised it needed better communication between it and the Muggle World. So aurors started joining the police force to solve crimes on both sides of the fence, so to speak.

If Muggles and Wizards had worked together then Sherlock estimated the war would have been over slightly quicker with less deaths. While modern technology didn't work around magic as well as it should it still did work. The world was progressing and the Wizarding World had to keep up.

Sherlock did find that rather boring though.

His generation had become one of the lost generations.

At Potter's wedding there were empty seats. Each had a name written on them. Lily Potter, James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Tonks ("anything else and she'd have killed me!"), Arthur Weasley, Fred Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Albus Dumbledore, Colin Creevey...

"Rather touching, don't you think?" Mycroft had asked.

Sherlock had nodded ever so slightly. Sentiment. Strange thing.

Potter had hugged him tight. "I didn't think you were coming you bastard!" he'd cried.

"I think Ginny would have hexed me if I didn't," he'd replied, a low murmur.

Potter had smiled and Sherlock had managed a genuine smile in return. Ginny Weasley was the best thing that had happened to Potter. As he rolled up his sleeves Sherlock winced at the scars on his wrists, trust Potter to take such a mundane course of action. Such a Muggle thing to do.

Such a human thing to do.

SHSHSH

Hermione Granger called by to see him a few times.

When he'd overdosed the second time.

"We're all a bit screwed in the head Sherlock," she'd sighed.

She'd introduced him to a friend, Molly Hooper, another Muggleborn, a Gryffindor he'd never even noticed (he'd have pegged her as a Hufflepuff). Apparently she'd stayed to help with medi-care during the Battle and had ended up fighting off some Slytherin thugs, having lost her wand she actually managed to thump one of them and take his by force.

Meeting her got him back into "detectiving or whatever it is you do". Of course then he'd found out Lestrade did the occasional Muggle case as well.

It had been interesting. It had been fun.

Then he'd met John Watson.

Another damaged soldier.

SHSHSH

"Ron just doesn't believe in computers! I like your blog though, much better than that Joe Watson's," Granger had commented as she sipped her coffee. "It's ever so interesting, I never knew there were so many types of ash!"

He'd nodded absent-mindedly and found himself correcting her. "It's John. John Watson."

She'd laughed and nodded. "Of course."

Sherlock didn't know why he'd corrected her when usually he let her ramble, but some things were important.

SHSHSH

The door burst open.

Sherlock knelt on the floor, a thin stick held tight between his white clenched knuckles. His lips were shaking.

"Riddikulus!"

John Watson's dead body was convulsing on the floor, and a shadowy figure loomed over it. Flitting in and out of vision.

John almost passed out.

SHSHSH

John Watson did what the British do when they are upset and confused and made a cup of tea. He sat stirring it thoughtfully as he listened to Sherlock's explanations.

It was sad. It was dreadful. Sherlock had been fighting a war when he'd just joined the army. All the strange occurrences in the nineties all made sense now. All the strange things that Sherlock could do, that were beyond real...not deducing, that was scientific, that was real. But like how he could knock something over and yet John never saw it drop. How Mycroft could arrive somewhere but there not be a car in sight, yet he always sent one for John. How Sherlock could get places he shouldn't be able to get to, how he survived the...

"Moriarty was...was trying to be a second Voldemort?"

Sherlock tried not to wince out of habit at the name. "Yes. Sort of. No not really, but if it helps you think of it like that then yes."

"You're a wizard? Mycroft's a werewolf and a wizard?"

"Yes John, I thought we covered this."

John took a long sip of tea. "There's a world full of wizards right beneath us."

"No, around you John. You Muggles you see but you don't observe."

John shook his head. "Mary will never believe this."

"About that, Mary's-"

"Is everyone around me a wizard?"

Sherlock shrugged. With a snap of his fingers he summoned his wand and his violin. "Anderson isn't."

"Wait Molly?"

Sherlock nodded.

"And Greg?"

"Who?" with a frown he picked up his bow.

"Lestrade!"

"Oh yes," Sherlock grinned. "And Mrs. Hudson. Molly's dating some Herbology Professor at Hogwarts now. Apparently they're having quite a lot of sex."

John nodded trying to clear his head. Wizarding World. Voldemort. Harry Potter, boy who lived. So many lost, a war just like his own. But Sherlock had been so young, Harry, god a good few years younger than him.

"And what was that thing?"

Sherlock didn't bother looking up. "It was a Boggart. It shows the thing you fear most. My fear was losing you, and never being able to catch who did it."

"Wow," John ran a hand through his hair.

"Yes," Sherlock smiled. "My patronus also changed around the same time as my Boggart did. It used to be an otter, now it's a hedgehog."

A slinky silvery fox trotted through the door and from it Anthea's voice came.

"Your brother wants to see you. Come at once."

Sherlock sighed. "Oh she knows I prefer to text. Besides, when has he ever asked so politely?"

John shook his head. "I don't-wait is everyone I know a wizard?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Like I said, Anderson isn't. Henry Knight was a squib. Kate, no Kate definitely wasn't. You like the danger of magic John."

With that Sherlock linked arms with John, did a half spin and as John put it "almost killed me". Sherlock would later refer to it as an uncomfortable apparation, which would have been fine had John not been un-co-operative.

SHSHSH

Mycroft Holmes sat in his office and put his head in his hands.

"What is it sir?" Anthea had casual robes on over her skirt suit, Mycroft often wondered why people still wore robes. But they were rather attractive on her.

"A fetching shade of pink dear," he informed her. "John Watson knows about magic. Think of the trouble they got into while Sherlock was hiding it from him. Can you imagine what they'll do get up to now?"

John Watson appeared slightly queasy as he stumbled forwards clutching the desk for support. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"We'll solve crimes together," stated Sherlock.

John nodded. "While he forgets his pants and I blog about it."

Mycroft Holmes shook his head. "Yes Anthea, here we have Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes, on whom both magical and muggle police often depend upon. Forgetting their trousers and blogging about it."


	2. The Mirror of Erised

Sherlock Holmes was fourteen and he was tired.

He was tired of the torment and ridicule, tied of the mundane reality in which he lived. He was tired of being surrounded by idiots. They were all so stupid. There was something very wicked living out in the Forbidden Forest, something that had been killing and drinking unicorn blood for its reviving properties.

He just thought it was all rather tidy that Harry Potter became the boy who lived ten years ago on Halloween night, and then as soon as he turns up at Hogwarts strange and dark things start happening. There weren't that many variables. Quirrel was one of them.

There was something odd about Professor Quirrel, something very odd indeed. Where was he on the night of the feast, when the troll got into the dungeons?

Potter thought it was Snape. But Snape wasn't...he wasn't thick. If he wanted to let a dangerous creature into Hogwarts he'd do it via the front door and he wouldn't get caught and he certainly wouldn't intentionally let it in in the dungeons, where all his precious Slytherins were, and his even more precious potions.

Sherlock couldn't even say that, Snape might have made mistakes, but he was certainly no evil man. Sherlock saw that, when few of his fellow idiot class mates could. He saw part of himself in the professor, and that worried him. Obviously an only child, half-blood according to the records he'd found. Bullied and alone and oh so terribly terribly sad, trauma and bla bla bla. And then he's in too deep, he begs Dumbledore for help, and Dumbledore agrees.

Sherlock had his theories about how it happened. He reckoned Snape had never overheard the prophecy (he'd research it as soon as he'd started Hogwarts and learnt more than just fairy-tales and folklore about the boy who lived). Snape had been listening not on Voldemort's orders but on Dumbledore's, drip feeding the Dark Lord information. And Dumbledore's so sure he can protect them, better Voldemort find out from Snape than find out some other way.

That way it's on their terms not his.

He's so sure he can protect them, both couples, the Longbottoms and the Potters. But of course he couldn't, never could. And Snape becomes the Judas of the Wizarding World. The hated, the betrayer, and remains that way for the rest of his godforsaken life.

Snape was an idiot like the rest of them, a spiteful and bitter man, aged beyond his years. But Christ, if he at fourteen could tell the man would never intentionally harm a child, then surely other doubters could accept that? He supposed Potter wasn't to be expected to be too bright, only eleven and all.

Still, if he can tell from the mudstains on Quirrel's trousers that the man's been spending an unexplainable amount of time in the forest, then surely Dumbledore knows. But why would Quirrel need the blood of a unicorn...

And as he delves deeper into the mystery he finds that Quirrel spent a long time in Albania, where Voldemort was said to have fled to, weakened but not completely destroyed. Sherlock gets told to stop researching, to stop prying and putting his nose were it doesn't belong. But they're so stupid. He goes to Dumbledore and demands he does something, and Dumbledore tells him he is, he's doing all that he can.

Mycroft writes to him and tells him to back down. Some things must play out in certain ways.

He knows at Potter's first Quidditch match that Quirrel tried to kill him. But why...was he working for the Dark Lord? Was he collecting unicorn blood and sending it to him?

He wrote a letter to his brother, he tried to tell a few people, who laughed him off. Why on earth would Quirrel do something like that? _Such a weirdo...you can't just accuse people of being Death Eaters Sherlock. Just because he gave you an A on your last essay. _

He tells Granger he knows she set fire to Snape's robes, that she shouldn't be concentrating on Snape but instead on Quirrel. But each time he tries to warn Potter, something or other stops him. And Dumbledore won't listen.

None of them listen. They never listen.

They call him a freak. He decides it's so much easier just not to care. He tries to keep tabs on Quirrel, who acts innocent and stuttery, but Sherlock knows he knows, and what's worse, Quirrel knows he knows he knows.

He can accurately predict who'll win the next Quidditch world cup, they listen to him then, but they won't listen to him now. He feels betrayed by his brother who refuses to act, stating that Dumbledore has it under control. Even now, years later, Sherlock knows Dumbledore wasn't the white knight everyone thought he was.

On a wide scale, he let the school be infiltrated by dark magic and risked lives almost every year since Potter turned up because he was too obsessed with raising him as a weapon, a sacrificial lamb. On a small scale, he was never there, he never stopped _them. _

"_Come on then freak! You think you're tough. You and me. No wands. No magic. Just fists." _

When he fights he has to hold back, because he knows he could inflict so much damage, the shit he'd be in if he did. When he duels he has to hold back, because he knows that his skill is superior to theirs. And he's so tired of respect and behaving. He's so tired of letting them walk over him.

Then one day, in February of '92 he has enough. He almost kills Bowen Duffield.

"_You think Quirrel's got Voldemort on the back of his head or something? You're the only freak in this school."_

He points out that Duffield's father was a death eater, and he sees Malfoy's eyes narrow, only a first year, but Sherlock doesn't relent.

"_Taking tips on how to harass and bully Malfoy? I would have thought your father gave you enough already."_

"_It's a pity Duffield, that your mother couldn't say no to the Dark Lord and his minions. Says she was under the imperius curse, but seems to me like she was proud to be Voldemort's whore. She still talk to Bellatrix Lestrange?"_

And soon Duffield's attacking him. A curse that almost knocks him flat. He yells something else about pictures of Duffield's mother in a paper soon after the war. Yelling that at least Lestrange was willing to suffer for her twisted ideology, at least accepted the monster she was.

And he knows he shouldn't have said it. Of course not.

They call him names, gay, fag, freak. They screech things about his family. So he retorts. It's not really an insult if it's true. It's not slander if it's true.

But Duffield's attacking him and he really thinks the boy's going to kill him. Sherlock has no excuse to be near the Slytherin dungeons at gone midnight. No excuse the teachers would accept. The Slytherins weren't in their dorms either, but they get away with murder.

Sherlock thinks they really might this time.

It hurts. All the words. All the spells and the feet and the claws. Someone said crucio. He knows someone said crucio. He knows. Fourteen and he knows and it hurts. It hurts so badly.

So he fights. He goes for it and he almost brings a wall down. Peeves is yelling and the Bloody Baron is bellowing. His spell hits Duffield square in the chest. He's sobbing, there's a cut on his forehead and he slamms a fist into the side of Dufffield's head. And another. Sobbing as he attacks an unconscious body.

He didn't know which teacher pulled him off the Slytherin, but somebody did.

Unsurprisingly none of the Slytherins saw anything but Sherlock attack Duffield. Duffield only acted in self defence. Strange that, Sherlock's covered in bruises, he can barely stand himself. He's got a few nasty magical cuts that take Pomfrey ages to heal.

But no one saw anything.

So Sherlock gets nearly a years worth of detentions, and later, when Potter performs a far more serious spell that nearly kills Malfoy, Sherlock notes he only serves detention for the rest of the term. Sherlock gets them till Christmas, and he nearly empties the House Points, only for Potter to fill them back up again. Letters written home and severe yelling ats.

It just makes things worse. So next time he doesn't bother. Duffield's friends corner him and he lets them hit him. Taking their anger out through physical means instead of magical. It hurts less. If he doesn't provoke them and just let their fists talk.

Snape finds him. Snape stops them. Snape's the only bloody one who cares. Mycroft doesn't. Dumbledore doesn't. Since when did he care about pupils? Lets Snape teach doesn't he? Snape who Sherlock learnt was Longbottom's biggest fear, Longbottom who's parents were tortured to the brink of insanity, who's been bullied since he was a toddler by family members and fellow pupils alike. Sherlock finds it disgusting. Snape might not be an angel, but he still fights for them, and Sherlock doesn't think that justifies his behaviour.

Dumbledore doesn't stop them starting rumours about Potter in his second year, claiming that he's the heir of Slytherin when he's obviously not. Doesn't even try. (They called Sherlock the heir of Slytherin for a while, until they realised that was far fetched, even for them). Doesn't bother with sex education or protecting the pupils from mundane and real horrors.

Sherlock can forgive him for Quirrel, and forgive him for turning Potter into a sacrificial lamb. He understands why. The master plan. Let the Dark Lord into the school, hope Potter defeats him. Let an innocent man rot in Azkaban, hope it works out. He can sort of just about understand. The lies. The deceit.

But he can't forgive the little things. The negligence.

It was May '92 when the Golden Trio finally found out about the unicorn blood, and all of a sudden they were looking and researching. He overheard the name Nicholas Flammel and it all started to fit together.

He warned Dumbledore, that whatever he was hiding was going to be found. It was. And suddenly he was believed again. Harry and Hermione and Ron defeated the Dark Lord. Child's play. Odd, thought Sherlock, that it seemed as if the obstacles for keeping the Dark Lord out seemed geared towards the Trio. Towards the four actually.

A herbology challenge for Neville, who didn't go, something Dumbledore hadn't counted on. A hand an eye, challenge, to test Harry's skills of flight. A chess game for Ron. A puzzle for Hermione. Odd how it was challenging, but not that challenging.

He'd brought it up over dinner with Mycroft that summer. Mycroft had told him to keep his mouth shut. That was when Sherlock realised that Dumbledore was building himself an army.

He'd mused that on the last day of term, for rumours of their plight had spread across the whole school. Everyone knew the freak had been right. Apparently Granger was looking for him. Hard to avoid her when he shared the same house as her. Not too hard.

But he was tired. He was so tired.

He came across a hidden room when he was hiding one day. He had long given up attending lessons. He didn't care about graduating. There wasn't any point, because none of it mattered. He didn't want them to hurt him, didn't want another upsetting letter sent to Mummy. There was only one person he had any real desire to talk to and that was Potter, who was bedridden and Pomfrey refused to allow him through the door.

Erised, it said on it, the mirror in the room that he found. He was hiding in particular from a few rather cruel sixthyears that day. He'd realised he was attracted to men, and had discovered that made him gay. And apparently that wasn't a good thing to be.

He was glad he got to go home soon. But he was tired of lying and pretending to be someone he wasn't. Pretending to be stupid and thick and...

The mirror showed him as he was. But on one side of him was Mycroft and his parents, who were so proud, on the other his peers, his friends. He had friends..._no. He didn't. Alone protected him. Alone is what he had. _

"You missed my lesson today," came a familiar snarl from behind him. But it was softened, blunted at the edges slightly, as if the speaker's heart wasn't in it. "Mr. Holmes, I do not think it would be wise to miss it again next year. Do you? That is if you're going to be taking it at NEWT level, then I suggest you try to at least pass your OWL."

"To do it at NEWT I'd need an O," Sherlock had said without turning. The tears in his eyes were blurring his vision. "So a pass wouldn't be enough."

"I'd take you at a Pass over the Weasley twins with an Outstanding Holmes," the potion's professor had smirked. "At least I know you understand the basic skill of potions, even if you refuse to participate in classroom activities and fail to follow simple procedures..."

Sherlock nodded and turned away.

Snape didn't move as Sherlock reached the door, finally he dragged his eyes away from the looking glass. "I wouldn't return to look for the mirror if I were you Holmes. It won't be here, and if it was, just looking at it for too long would drive you mad, it shows you're-"

"Desires, I know, I'm not an idiot."

"I'd beg to differ."

Sherlock managed a slight smile. He glanced back at the potion's master. "What do you see, professor, when you look at it?"

"I see myself..." he began then trailed off, mesmerised. "I see myself surrounded by some of the most precious and difficult to brew potions in the world, all of which I brewed myself."

Sherlock had simply nodded as he left, but as he let the door swing shut he realised that Snape had probably not been quite truthful. Sentimentality and all that. It was very unlikely that he had been truthful in fact. But for once Sherlock left it at that, for, as he supposed, it had been quite a personal question after all.


End file.
